Incoherent
by NotYourTypicalEmily
Summary: France seems to have become familiar with the concept of apologizing and leaving. Woo, ongoing ! Will contain quite a variety of characters
1. Chapter 1

Incoherent

Francis swallowed, knocking on Austria's door and wincing as the loud noise that reverberated from his actions echoed through his aching head. Hungary answered, her cheeks flushed slightly and a puckered brow when she noticed the state the French man was in, she shook her head and put a hand on his cheek,

"France, are you okay?" he smiled at her. She was formerly such a boisterous country, obsessed with war and battles, however now she married Austria she had left it all behind her and took on a more gentle role, it was comforting to feel the warmth on his cheek, especially because of what was about to happen. He shook his head at her gently and took her hand, smiling with a melancholy grace, he murmured gently,

"I need to speak to you and Roderich…Alone."

Hungary opened the door wider and ushered him in, mumbling something anxiously in her native tongue. Francis took a step in, he was tattered and tired from the war but still he strutted proudly, maybe it was some sort of comfort mechanism, he was unsure why he felt the need to keep up with reputation in the dire time he was in but nevertheless it was like… a necessity. Elizaveta closed the door with a harsh snap, making the noise, once more stab at France's headache.

She nodded her head and motioned for him to follow her, as they went up the stairs and further down the corridor a bittersweet melody became apparent, Hungary smiled sadly and whispered,

"I can hardly get him away from that damn piano anymore," she really wasn't making this any easier on the French man, however, he nodded as if he understood and continued following her though the sad sound of the keys music made his head pound irritably.

Slowly, Elizaveta opened the door to find her husband intensely glaring at the white keys as he played and her adopted son just sitting and watching. She coughed and Austria came to an abrupt and harsh stop, he looked over at them both and quickly became intrigued. He took his glasses off and cleaned them with his sleeve as a substitute for his usual cloth, it was an easy identifiable defensive habit of his.

"Yes?" he said, his voice prim and to the point, he pointedly stared at France even though his wife was talking to him.

"Italy, leave us for a while, okay? Francis needs to talk to Roderich and I."

The boy was a teenager now and was finally unmistakably _male_, he stared at him with his childish innocence before smiling and getting to his feet and practically dancing out of the room. He came to a halt and faced France, he blinked at him and gave him a fleeting embrace, "It's nice to see you, fratello." He whispered before exiting the room, closing the door gently behind him and waltzing down the corridors with ease, unfazed by the serious tone of the room he was previously in.

Roderich was at his feet, he glared at the blond man before him, knowing he'd have news of the Napoleon war and silently _daring_ him to say something remotely boastful. However, the opposite male only gave a small smile in reply and gently said,

"You may want to sit down…"

"Oh god," Hungary was already worrying, her sweet features were contorted into a complete picture of anxiety, Austria gave a small sigh and made his way over to her, taking her shaky hand he lead her to the sofa that was perched only a few feet away from the piano. He kissed the top of her head gently, everyone knew Roderich was not one for public signs of affection but it must have pained him to see the woman's face drained of all colour and her body quivering already. Francis stood, he looked down at his feet and tried to will himself to look the other nations in the eyes, it was the least he could do. He bit his lip and slowly brought his vision back in line with the others,

"Holy Roman Empire… He's…" the Frenchman paused, it was hard to get the words out and it made him sick to imagine what their expressions would be like.

_Stop being a coward_ his inner monologue yelled at him, taunting the man more and increasing the pain in his head, _You made this mess, deal with the consequences._

"Holy Roman Empire is dead,"

The words were out, there was no taking them back now. They bounced off the walls and danced teasingly in the air, as if mocking the inhabitants of the room. Hungary's eyes widened and her lip trembled, it only took a few seconds for her to break down, shaking her head and crying out. Roderich grasped at his wife's arm, "You did it, didn't you?" his whole body shook with anger, the thought that the country that he had practically raised had perished made him feel sick and the fact that his killer stood only a few feet away from him was even worse. He got up, his vigorous action making his glasses crookedly hang at the bridge of his nose. France bit the inside of his cheek, the yells hurting his head.

"He would have died anyway," he murmured shakily. The Austrian yelled out in rage and stormed over to the French man with his fist raised and a menacing look in his eyes. Francis did nothing but stand there, accepting anything that was to come to him.

"You bastard! I'll kill you, damn it, I'll kill you!" The usual prestigious and elegant nation had reduced himself to a revenge driven lunatic in a matter of minutes. Hungary shook her head and yelled out,

"Roderich, listen to him!" Austria turned around to see his wife stand shakily with ghost trails of tears staining her porcelain cheeks. Her maternal instinct was strong and he assumed she would have reacted worse than him, however, her face was calm although her lips still shook as she tried to repress the sting of the tears that were threatening to overflow. She took a few steps and put one hand on her husband's shoulder and the other on his cheek.

"What has been done, has been done. Francis is right, I'm grateful that Holy Rome's life ended at the hands of someone who cared about him rather than some bloodthirsty country later on," he looked down at her, hating it when she was right, however, she turned to glare at the French man even so.

"I'm grateful in some ways," she said coldly, "But do not think that you are forgiven for taking my son from me."

He nodded sincerely, his head hurting and pulse rushing, uncomfortable with the heavy atmosphere. Austria's anger was replaced with sorrow as he pulled his wife closer, needing her warmth. France ran a hand through his hair,

"I think you may forgive me before I forgive myself, madam…"

"Don't count on it."

It was fair. More than fair, neither of them had beaten him mercilessly and Francis was thankful. However, he had one more request to make.

"Holy Rome asked me to tell Italy myself…" Hungary nodded solemnly, wrapping her arms around her husband and pressing her nose up to his chest, Francis wasn't one to loiter, and so he turned on his heel sharply and waltzed out of the room, unable to stand the sight of them any longer. Once the door shut, Elizaveta began to sob uncontrollably into her Austrian's jacket, he played with her soft curls and kissed her forehead chastely, blinking back his own tears as he rocked her gently in an attempt to condole her.

His footsteps echoed as he went down the corridors, Austria's house was too big and grand for his liking, he was unable to find the teenage Italy. "Veneziano! Veneziano!" his calls were like daggers, he was surprised that his head had not yet exploded from the amount of noise he had to endure during the visit. However, that was nothing compared to what was going to happen. He knew it would be harder than the previous confrontation would be, especially since he was now telling his little brother that he killed his childhood sweetheart.

"In here!" Even though he was a teenager, Italy's voice was still sweetly feminine, like music to a man's ears. France gave a contented sigh before opening the door to his far left, he found the adolescent perched on a window frame looking absent mindedly outside, his copper hair brushing gently over his forehead and that one single curl bobbing up and down as he turned his head to face Francis.

The French man's breath caught raggedly in his throat as he tried to think of how to go about it. Everything seemed to get harder, his mind was a haze and his chest felt tighter as if someone was applying pressure on it. When he didn't say anything, Feliciano started to dawdle, as if he too were trying to delay the conversation looming and edging closer slowly and surely.

"I'm seeing Romano soon, brother Spain said that he'd come bring him over… I haven't seen him for so long, apparently he's gotten tall. 'Tonio says his language is still disgusting though."

Francis nodded slowly and took a seat, as if silently willing the smaller boy to carry on 'distracting' him. He really didn't want to have this conversation with him, however, he owed it to the small boy he had recently killed, it was the only thing he could do to make him feel as if Holy Rome would forgive him. Italy continued, his smile placed eerily on his face, unmoving and stubborn,

"So I've seen you, now I'll see Antonio and Lovino… The only person missing is Holy Rome, isn't it?"

There was the window of opportunity and Francis knew he had to say something now or he never would and he'd never redeem himself. He felt tears sting at his eyes, the pain he was feeling was self-inflicted and he knew that, but it didn't mean it made it any easier. He lifted his hand and motioned for Italy to come over, the boy was taken aback at first but then his mind started to buzz with unspoken worries. Nevertheless, he went to his feet and walked over to his elder.

The blond reached out and cupped the smaller male's face and said with a stern face, "Mon cher, Holy Rome won't be coming back."

The Italian's smile faltered slightly but he shook his head and composed himself, "Don't be silly, fratello! He promised he would."

"He's dead, Feli'," the French man's stare didn't break, he owed it to the sweet face in front of him to be strong, "I killed him."

Italy shook his head, his smile threatening to slip from his face as his breath became ragged, "No, no. He said…" France stroked the straight locks in front of him and nodded sadly, the Italian's face fell completely, all laughs and smiles melted away with the façade that came with them as tears began to form at the edges of his narrowed eyes. A single crystal tear slid down his cheek slowly as if it was painfully reminding Francis that he was the reason the gentle hearted Italy was hurting. His brows knitted together and met at the center of his forehead, he licked his lips nervously and took the boys hand, offering a comforting squeeze.

"Why, fratello?" another delicate tear graced his face. France flinched, unsure how to respond. What could he say? 'He was a country in my way'? Though it was true, he didn't like to think of Holy Rome as an irritant he just got rid of on the battlefield. He had no other response than,

"I'm sorry."

The Italian shuddered slightly, turning away. France looked up at him, watching the sweet boy cry was one of the hardest things he had to do. He started to stroke the hand he had tucked in his palm and said,

"Feliciano, Holy Rome said he didn't want you to be sad," he had done so well at keeping his voice steady but now it seemed to stammer and jitter at nearly every word that came out as he relived the boy's last moments, "He wanted you to keep smiling and to move on, okay? Do it for him, Feli'. Be strong like Holy Rome."  
Italy looked at his brother and blinked rapidly as if he was trying to decide what he was to think of it, he bit the inside of his mouth before making his lips twitch up into a half-hearted smile. France gave a smile in return and traced the stains the boys tears had made, he was unworthy of such forgiveness. Everyone knew though that nothing lasts forever, not even nations, it was just that Holy Rome met his end early and it happened to be France who introduced them.

Even so, the rest of his words were incoherent. He couldn't say anything more, he stammered as he tried to thank the smaller nation and he just couldn't find the right words. So instead he just got up, nodded and left.

Leaving the mess he had created behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Incoherent

Arthur Kirkland had found himself on the battlefield reduced to a pale, sobbing, quivering wreck. He grasped at his war clothes and pulled at the material, not liking how it stuck to his body in the rain, how it made his wounds sting as the material teased at the splits in his skin tissue. His ribs heaved as he took shuddered breaths, he didn't blame his former inferior for attempting physical combat with him, however, he didn't know how the younger nation thought he'd be able to fight back. Instead, he let Alfred hit him, let him get it all off his chest and hoped this was just some sort of adolescent rebellion.

But it was so much more.

America had screamed at him, as if daring him to retaliate. The English man had attempted to make a statement by making a show of pointing his gun and yelling, his heavy brow furrowing and his thin lips pursing, making the American recoil slightly until Arthur burst out crying and fell to his knees, resembling a child that had been spited by a hierarchy. His underling had shook his head remorsefully and stared down at his mentor with genuine pity in his eyes. …That was something Arthur had found the hardest to stomach. The… Sympathy emanating from the crowd that surrounded them made his insides twinge and a familiar feeling of pressure fall upon his chest as he ignored the saddening comment Alfred had made in an attempt to put both parties minds at ease. As the rain fell and hit at them hard, the American bowed his head and gave a small and wry smile, trying to make the situation seem less sad. Damn it, the other country's government and leaders treated Alfred's people like crap, taxing them and making it generally harder for ordinary people to continue with ordinary lives, but it didn't break the bond the two nations held and it had been daunting for Alfred in the past weeks leading up to this moment. Even then, when it was there staring them straight in the face, as clear and as real as ever, it made the American's chest tighten. Turning sharply on his heel, he lead his men away, leaving the other nation to himself.

Or not. Francis nodded as soldiers passed him and gave small smiles humbly as they patted him on the shoulder, congratulating and thanking him on his and his men's involvement. When the area was cleared of all American and French soldiers, he gulped and strode over to the broken man. The French man tried not to laugh bitterly; he had been in this situation before, seen features contorted with the same sorrow. He was faced, again, with the task of explaining himself and he didn't like it especially since now it was to a person he had been close with ever since they were young. Now here they were, fully bloomed men. Arthur with his broad shoulders and drawl of a voice, Francis with his stubble and chiseled jaw but now it was as if Arthur was the same reproachful child hidden behind a cloak and Francis the arrogant teen flamboyantly pouncing on anything that moved. The Frenchman sunk to his knees so he was leveled with the English one, his blue eyes searched the scratched and broken face, hoping that he'd see even a small trace of the carefree Arthur he had grown to know and love. When there was no light on his face, France choked back an aggravating sob threatening to come up from his throat. He brought his hand shakily towards the man's face and let his fingers gently dance on the smooth surface of his cheek that, even when it had been dirtied by war, felt sweetly boyish and free of any manly facial hair. Forest green eyes snapped up to glare into aqua ones as two firm hands pushed on France's chest, all kindness had been drained from the boys face.

"Damn it, Frog, don't you dare touch me!" he managed to stammer out, his warm tears he had been crying for America's departure slowly turned cold and into ones of loathing for the man in front of him. His face felt hot and his ribs ached as he took ragged breaths, France analyzed Britain's face and ran a hand through his companion's unruly blond hair, his brow furrowed as Arthur cringed and pulled away, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

"Angleterre…"

"Don't. You. Bloody. _Angleterre_. Me." Each word was precise, punctuated with a punch to the French man's chest, though the impact weakened with each word, "You helped him! Why? What did it have to do with you, idiot? W-we would have gotten by… I could've…" His body shook as he tried to finish what he had begun to say, but truth was that Arthur didn't know what he would have done. The French man grabbed the weakly punching fists and softly watched, he brought his lips close to the English man's ear, his breath tickling on the lobe and the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry."

And yet again, forest green met aqua blue. Arthur's lip trembled as he croaked out, "Apologies will do nothing, Frog. Get away from here."

"But please…"

"I said, get away!"

Francis felt a lump rise in his throat, he slowly but surely got to his feet as incoherent mumbles from Britain danced around teasingly in the air. The rain drummed against his skin with a steady rhythm, there was mud on the knees of his formerly immaculate trousers and his long hair stuck to his face uncomfortably. However, he held his head up high and walked away.

At least 'leaving' was something he was good at.


End file.
